You Are My World
by Renflower21
Summary: It's the modern day, and the Walken couple must address the issue of their inevitable mortality. One-shot, ClairexChane.


The Walken house was dark, all lights turned off for the night save one bedside lamp. A wide window covered one wall, the curtains drawn back to reveal an unobstructed view of the sky. Through the windowpane, the light from the waning moon cast a dim light into the bedroom. It glinted off the chipped, faded sun catcher that hung on the glass, a gift from when their grandchildren stood no higher than Chane's hip.

On the left-most wall, an oak dresser pressed against the corner. A collection photographs scattered across its surface, a chronicle of the couple's journey together. The older ones had grown faded, especially the wedding photo in the center, which showed wear from a great amount of handling. The most recent family picture looked worn as well, the edges curled and fingerprints marring the glossy material. Chane caught Claire holding that one often during the last couple weeks, staring at it with intensity.

Other remnants of their past decorated the room as well. Shelves ran along the right wall, holding memorabilia from their more exciting adventures. One shelf was dedicated to Chane's collection of knives alone, most of which were unused and gifts from her husband. Every few months, Claire still disappeared for weeks to months at a time on some vague task. Sometimes, it was a job or favor for a connection of his. However, more recently, the trips began to limit themselves to personal ventures, born from some rumor or half-baked ambition that appealed to his odd sense of interest. The changing nature of his ventures was evident in the more outlandish gifts he'd brought back - and he never failed to bring back presents for his wife. She particularly enjoyed the long sword he'd brought back from a Caribbean shipwreck some ten-odd years prior, though it stood out as the most flamboyant object with its bejeweled hilt. Chane liked to practice her old moves with it sometimes. The motions came back to her at once, as if second-nature, and for a moment she felt returned to her limber, young body.

At the moment, the married couple had settled into the bed at the center of the room. Chane sat with her back pressed against the headboard, her knees pulled in close to her chest. Against her legs, she propped a hardback novel that bore a French title, opened to a dog-eared page. The edges of the pages crinkled and yellowed, and the book cover had become lost years ago. Her gold eyes squinted beneath a pair of reading glasses that perched on the bridge of her nose. She'd picked up the eyeglasses a couple years ago, thinking the slight decay of sight a fair price to pay for her years of perfect vision.

Chane tucked her silver hair behind her ears, sighing as a few strands broke off from just the light touch. These days, it seemed to her that everything she did was a reminder of her age. She would look down at her hands, with their prominent bones and wrinkling skin, and it would take seconds for her to recognize them as her own. Just the act of breathing became laborious at times, her lungs tired of what had once been instinctive. To take her mind off the fluttering gray strands, she turned her focus back to her reading.

Beside her, Claire laid stretched out on his back, his glazed eyes staring up at the ceiling. His hands were folded beneath his head, and every few minutes he'd exhale a long breath and close his eyes for a long time. Chane recognized the expression of one of severe contemplation, reserved for only the most serious subjects - by Claire's standards, anyway. After all, Claire Stanfield rarely chose to stay quiet, even for just a few minutes. Even the years had not diminished that aspect of his personality.

Having spent so many decades together, the understanding between the two ran deep enough that Chane knew she did not have to question Claire about his thoughts, because he'd have no hesitance in talking to her about them when he wanted to. And at the same time, Claire understood that his wife was aware of his current state and awaiting his explanation with patience. After having spent an hour in the thought - about as long as the two usually spent together between retiring to bed and actually settling to sleep - Claire turned to his wife and set a hand on her thigh.

"Chane."

The woman addressed looked over at the man beside her. She did not hesitate to close her book and set it down beside her, every ounce of attention redirected to Claire at only the single word. At the sight of her husband, the corners of her lips automatically tugged upward a centimeter, the equivalent of beaming for Chane's expression. Just the aura around Claire - that overwhelming eminence of power and confidence - revitalized her. His hair had grayed, and his skin wrinkled and paled, but through persistent exercise, his body had retained its youthful abundance of strength.

Though he'd mellowed some from the years and from the experience that having family lent, Claire's invulnerable arrogance and flippancy kept his presence as energetic as it had been for as long as she'd known him. So when Chane looked at him, she still saw the man she'd married seventy years ago. In turn, just being in the center of his gaze returned her sense of youth. He always looked at her just as he had when they'd first met. And when he ran his hand up her thigh, as he did now, it was as if they were newlyweds once more, his blind passion overcoming even her heavy wariness.

Having caught his wife's attention, Claire stared at her without a trace of smile, his eyes studying her face with intensity, though he'd long since memorized its every intricacy. He possessed a significant capacity for memorization, and back when he'd first married Chane, Claire had committed himself to the task of learning every small detail about her by heart. And like any job Claire took on, he'd approached it with such vigor and determination that to this day, he could recite any tiny fact about his beloved. But he studied her again anyway, making sure his conception of her ran deep in his mind, where it was impossible to lose sight of.

When Chane turned her head, the question glimmering in her eyes, Claire laid his hand atop hers, interweaving their fingers. Then, he told her, "I think I'm going to have to let go of this world tonight, Chane."

Chane understood the meaning in his words immediately. Her hand squeezed Claire's, so tight her knuckles flashed white. Her breaths hitched, and even the hint of smile on her face vanished. She was not ready to lose him.

"I know you're upset. I've been trying to stay here for a long time now. It's been getting harder to control that, but I wanted to stay because I don't like upsetting you. I wanted to give you more time here." He said.

Chane narrowed her eyes. _'You promised_._' _

They both recalled the promises Claire had made when he'd first propositioned her. And every subsequent time after that, when he'd sworn that he'd keep her world free from destruction. When he'd sworn in his arrogance and his inexperience that he'd never die. Chane knew, deep down, that this time would come at some point, that her mortal husband would pass away. She even accepted that they'd both lived fulfilling lives and that death would not treat them poorly. Yet, feeling Claire's hand in hers, she could not fathom the idea of letting go. Even if Claire's solipsistic philosophy proved wrong, it did not matter, because he was the center of her universe now, and just his absence from her world would be akin to its destruction. And so she protested, throwing out the outdated promise as her last bargaining chip.

Claire did not shirk from the accusation. He knew his wife's thought processes, what really laid beneath her unspoken words. His hand trembled under hers, a byproduct of age, but his stare was as unwavering as ever.

"It's okay, Chane. There's no reason to be afraid. Because nothing's being destroyed, not really. I've spent a lot of time thinking about death, and to tell the truth, I still can't imagine what it's like. But I think it'll be something like waking up, or starting up a new world. So there's no need to worry." Claire said, never once entertaining the notion that death meant anything close to how the rest of the world interpreted it. There could be no afterlife, because he was the only force in the universe. There could be no oblivion, because a presence like his could never perish. He could not even comprehend oblivion, let alone create it.

Chane knew better than to question his philosophy. Over the years, she'd even begun to accept his views as absolute truth, swayed by his sheer confidence in them. She did not doubt that Claire would meet another life after his departure from this world. She did not think that a life as powerful as his could simply extinguish. It was for herself, now, that she feared. Chane didn't want to speak about herself in what should be Claire's moment, but it was impossible to keep her eyes from reflecting her question.

'_And what about me?'_

For the first time that night, Claire smiled at her, not a trace of doubt tainting his expression. "I worried about that, for a while. But the way I figure, you're a part of me. I mean, you come from my dream, from my imagination, right? So no matter what happens after this, you'll still be there." He said.

Claire leaned over and touched his lips to hers, just lingering for a moment before he pulled away. Their physical intimacy had dwindled over the years, but even now, just the smallest kiss could send a rush of warmth through both their hearts.

"You see, I'll keep you with me always. Right here."

Whereas most romantic-minded men would have gestured to their heart at this point, Claire instead tapped a finger against the side of his head. With that, Chane was reminded of why it was the man next to her that retained sole possession of her love. Of why it could never have been anybody else.

"So don't be afraid. You're my beautiful, charming, amazing wife. I couldn't _possibly_ keep you out of my mind. So there's no way I won't find you in whatever world I create or wake up in next." He declared.

A hint of luminescence flashed across her cheeks. No amount of years had managed to make her comfortable with Claire's easy compliments. But as always, it was pure honesty that emanated from him. She'd never found his words to be false in the past, and so she believed him now with all of her being.

_'Claire. If that is true -'_

"It is." Clare stated.

_'Then I am happy. In this new world, I will find you.'_

At the reminder of their first meeting, of the note she'd carved for him atop the train, Claire beamed, his heart racing. Back then, he'd believed that their meeting had been love at first sight, that it had been destiny. Nothing in the years between had convinced him otherwise.

"I will also try to find you." He echoed back.

Slowly, and with much deliberateness, Claire let go of his wife's hand and put his arm around her frail shoulders. Then, he pulled her down so that she lay down on the bed beside him, her head right beside his on the pillow, one of her arms laying on top of his chest.

"I messed up a lot in this world." He commented. "You know that."

Chane remained still. She knew his feelings on the matter, the guilt stemming from his past. Tragedies were harder to take for a man who believed himself responsible for every occurrence in the world. Being at the center also meant being the sole bearer of liability, though most people could hardly tell from Claire's flippant attitude. Yet, it was that negativity towards himself that'd driven Claire to murder, to assassinate, to wallow in blood for a living. Chane had once tried reassuring him on the matter, to alleviate his burden. But you could not reassure a man who had happily accepted his guilt. Especially when she was so similar herself, giving her no right to refute him. Ho wever, she would not reaffirm his ideas either.

"It's true." He said, as if hearing her doubts. "But I'll do better with wherever I go next. I know I will, because I've gotten better at it here. Because I have you. I had the idea of you and everything you are, and that is perfect. You are what I did right in this world, and that's why you're going to be what comes with me now."

Chane tilted her head, her fingers gripping at Claire's pajama shirt. Her knuckles ached, but she did not notice. _'I will come with you. I will follow anywhere you ask.'_

Claire had never asked anything of her. He'd wanted marriage, proposed it, but he'd never insisted or asked her to sacrifice to gain it. It was the one thing Chane's father had never given her, and it was that freedom that had taught her the immense difference between her loves for both men. So now, at the end of Claire's life, she would without hesitation give him anything he asked.

"But I won't ask. I don't have to. Because I already know it's going to be so." He responded. "I can't fathom a world without you. I mean, Chane, you _are_ my world."

Claire circled his arms around her and pulled her closer against him, so that her head pressed against his chest. Chane closed her eyes and returned the embrace, her hands gripping tight at the fabric of his shirt, as if she could hold onto his life and keep it there with her. The urge to cry rose up in her, but she dismissed it. Crying would not keep him alive.

So, too, did Claire remain dry-eyed. Those his reasons were equal parts the confidence of their meeting in a new life and the fact that his body had forgotten the notion of tears many decades ago. He rested his lips on the top of her head for a moment, his hand warm against the small of her back.

"I won't say goodbye, because that's not what this is. And I'm not poetic enough to do it properly anyway. So I'll just say this. I love you, Chane."

_'I love you, Claire.'_ Though her face was buried against him so that he could not see her eyes, he heard the words all the same. It was in every breath she took, in the weight of her arms around him, in the warmth that came just from being next to her. He knew her answer, as surely as he knew his own heart. And so he harbored no more regrets, no more last desires, to keep him from bidding this world goodbye. All he wanted was to hold Chane.

Minutes passed, with Claire's body growing more lax every time the clock ticked. His breathing grew ragged, and then shallow. Chane listened as the heartbeat against his chest grew fainter, slower. Unable to stand even the thought of watching the life slip from the man she cherished, she closed her eyes tight as she kept pressed against his body.

After a few minutes, he was gone.

And in that moment of realization, at that second in which Chane understood the absence of her husband's life, her thoughts began to swim. It was as if a sinkhole had opened up in her chest, and every bit of life was being swallowed. Her heart seized from the sudden, unbearable emptiness. She tried to cling tighter to Claire's body, but her muscles ceased to respond to her thoughts. In that moment, Chane understood. So enmeshed had her world and Claire's become, so deeply integrated with one another, that somewhere along the line, they'd become one and the same. She could not function without him, because her life was not just her own. So great was her faith in his world, so deep her loyalty, that she had no choice but to take her place beside him in death.

She wondered for a moment what the new world she'd awake to would be like, but at the picture of Claire's face, the last thought in her mind as life drained from her, she understood it did not matter.

No matter where they were, no matter what universe they dwelled in, it was Claire that would always be her world.

And in turn, no matter what other creations he stood at the center of, what other surroundings he conceived, she, too, would always be Claire's.


End file.
